MIÉRCOLES
6:07 PM

Dahlia Gray

I remember thinking I couldn't tell Harlow.

It wasn't because I didn't trust him—I do—but the reference to the memories would initiate an uncomfortable and awfully long conversation between our lessons. I didn't have the time. I rather waste away keeping quiet than sitting in silence for an hour or two, reciting a story I want no part of.

I just want to leave.

I spot Harlow in the empty parking lot, leaning against the trunk of the Mustang with a cigarette tucked between his teeth. An opaque cloud of smoke coming out of the end of the charred cigarette as his eyes cast off into oblivion, with no retrospect for his surroundings—until he catches me.

I don't say anything as I walk towards him, my head preoccupied with other things that don't concern what he does in his free time. Instead, I square up my shoulders, suck in a deep breath, tilt my chin upwards and front with a passive face. I pretend to be unbothered by his actions.

When in reality, that's far from the truth.

The imitation of art reflecting life stares back at me, as I slip into the space beside him, catching a whiff of the nicotine that fumes his aroma. The action parallels my father's, and I couldn't stop myself from thinking about how closely they resemble each other—even if they don't notice. The same brand, the same dismissive attitude towards my dislike of the activity—everything.

It hurts me, but it shouldn't. Harlow said it once, but his words rang a bell of declaration to my ears: we don't have a title.

There's no relationship.

He drops the cigarette to the asphalt, crushing it under his shoe. His eyes turn to me, waiting for a reaction, but I gave him none. My eyes glue to the road before us, splitting from the parking lot and into directions of endless maps. One road of infinite possibilities.

A new chance, a fresh start.

"Anything going on at home?" Harlow asks gruffly, the heat of his stare burning into the side of my head. I swallow my tongue, answering his question with mediated silence. Not bothering to clue him in on what's going on, or what happened yesterday.

A vivid memory flashes through my head and my father's words ring through me on blasted speakers, whistling on repeat. My gaze shifts to the sky, stopping the welling of tears, and reminding myself to not cry. My hands clench and unclench by my side, nails digging into my palms to absorb all my pent-up emotions I want to release.

"Let's start driving." I croak, swearing to myself for my feeble attempt to appear detached. I quickly turn to the right, skip past Harlow and head towards the driver's side. When I slip into the vehicle, I realize I forgot to ask for the keys.

It didn't matter, as Harlow follows behind in suit and settles into the passenger side. He holds out his hand, the jangle of keys splat between his palm. I take it, and slip the key into the ignition, dropping my hand on the gear shift, ready to reverse.

Before I got the chance, Harlow grabs my hand and stops me in place. I look up to him, a flicker of confusion crosses my expression and his lit with concern. His blue eyes waiting, patiently, for me to break and confess something.

I don't speak.

"What's the rule?" Harlow demands, his eyes studying my features as if he could read me like an open book. I made sure he couldn't, converting my expression into a stoic gaze and chanting to myself: don't cry, don't cry. Strong girls don't cry.

His eyes pleaded for an answer, but I gave him none, grasping another attempt to adjust the gear into reverse when Harlow's grip tightens. Annoyance flares in my chest.

"ISSM." He snaps, irritation pooling against his words. I swallow back, "Ignition. Seatbelt. Seat. Mirror."

I forgot. The thought slipped my mind as I was preoccupied with other things. I try to conceal my embarrassment as I pull my hand from the pile, yanking the seatbelt across my chest, clicking the buckle. I adjust my seat and rear mirror, and when I finish, turn back to the road. Harlow's hand has since slipped from the gear shift and settled back on his lap, his eyes never once leaving my face.

I waited.

Harlow tends to give a small briefing of what we're going to be going over today, before we start, and I didn't want to set off any more warning signals that something was wrong. He begins to recite the things we were supposed to be checking off—about how I'm going to drive around the park in circles before I get my chance on the road. He talks about the buttons and location of each manual click, but I barely focus.

My brain highlights what he said: about how we were going to be driving. A couple more lessons, and I should be able to get my license, or at least, know a decent amount of practice without his guidance.

I don't know. I couldn't focus on the logistics. All I could think about is: I'm going to leave. I'm so close to leaving, and the minute I do, I'm never coming back.

"Alright, start." Harlow initiates, causing me to snap back into reality. I spare a glance at him, catching his eyes, before focusing back to the road. Shifting the gear into reverse and pulling out of the parking space, I take a turn around the corner of the park.

For a good thirty minutes, we did just that. We drove in circles around the park while I attempted to calm the raging storm of anxiety building in my chest. Vicious playthroughs of past attempts flashes through my head, involuntarily causing my fingers to grip around the steering wheel tightly. Combined with imaginations and predictions about  what happens to me if I fail.

I'm stuck. I'm trying to leave, but I can't help but recite the words my father blew over me and how they slice through me so hard. I would rather be gunned-down. I wanted to cry. I wanted to leave, but I'm struggling to take a breath of air because there's a pressure building against the surface of my throat, each inhale lodging it deeper.

I can't breathe.

After the third or fourth round of circling the park, a sense of panic overwhelms me. I found myself fearing that I'll never progress. It dawns on me, how repetitive and tedious this whole course is. That I'm going to stay in constant motion, never taking the necessary step forward but not quite taking one back. While everyone around me moves ahead.

I pull into a park.

The engine rumbles underneath us, the brackets lining the tires shift into a halt and the brakes clasp the wheels into a full stop. My hands wrap around the steering wheel, never once wavering from it since I've pulled back into the parking lot, and I swallow a gulp.

"You're doing good." Harlow compliments, his voice neutral. "I think you should drive around the neighborhood now."

"No," I shake my head, my words stubborn. "I don't want to drive around the neighborhood."

"What?"

"I want to drive off into the road," I demand, a bit stronger. "I want to drive in the streets and get out of here. It's getting repetitive and I'm not going anywhere and I—"

"Dahlia, calm down." Harlow urges, holding out both his hands in surrender. His eyes flicks to my features, and I shut my jaw, gritting my teeth to contain my emotions. "We can drive on the fucking road, just...calm down."

I don't say anything, sucking in a deep breath and glancing down to my thighs. My father's words penetrate against my skull, like a headache, and I can't seem to loosen this feeling. I want to do something.

The world feels closing in, and my opportunity to leave is running slim. I want, no—need to do something. To leave, to escape, to drive off into the sunset and never return.

My head throbs with the constant notion that I'm not going anywhere, that I'm going to be stuck here forever. The feverish thought sends an unpleasant feeling down my spine and a panic that rises against my lungs. If Harlow continues to treat me like I'm fragile, then I'll spend the rest of my life wondering if glass is meant to break.

I've driven before. I have.

It just didn't work out.

My knuckles turn white at my intensity, and every room for mistake has been minimized to a zero. I don't remember if I took a breath in a while, or if I've been breathing. I inhale and exhale frantically, trying to calm my nerves at finally taking on the road. At making some real progress in my driving lessons.

Harlow doesn't say anything. He watches from the side, catching the slightest movement at every bolt unhinging. I try to front like nothing's wrong, but at this point, hiding it is a display of cowardice. He knows. I know he does, and I know he wants to ask before I get the chance to drive—but I don't want to answer. I'm so close, and to feel my chances slipping away in front of me kills me.

"Can we go?" I beg, a plea of urgency in my voice.

Harlow heaves a sigh, but nods, telling me to go into reverse. I follow his directions as he guides me out of the neighborhood and onto the road. My turns are sharp but consistent enough where no one says a thing, and I drive at a steady pace.

Concentrate. The only constant conversation that resumes in this dense atmosphere was Harlow giving me directions on where to go, and when to pull in. I don't entirely know where we're heading, but Harlow seems to. That's good enough.

This is it, this is it.

We're driving down a large highway, with a couple of lanes to roam freely. Two are set for driving back and two are set for driving forward. I'm occupying the space on the road, a white median barricading me from serving into the opposite lane.

I don't listen to anything or pay attention to anything but the road. I notice large stretches of grassland and trees skimming my line of vision as I pass, but nothing more. There's a couple of road signs here and there, but minimal life.

A memory occurs to me. About the first time I went driving, and I'm with my father. I remember how anxious I was, being behind the wheel for the first time, and how every little mistake was doxed with a comment or a misguided lesson. I remember panicking every little turn I made, and how it wasn't perfect enough or how it wasn't fast enough.

It's been three years, yet I could remember as clear as yesterday—the fear and intimidation and panic that overwhelmed me every time I entered a car.

"DAHLIA!" Harlow screams, snapping me back into reality, just to see a truck heading straight for us. The driver honks their horn, and I completely freeze, unsure of what to do—just for Harlow to take the wheel and yank it into the right, causing us to swerve off the road and onto the grass.

The engine sputtering, my head spinning, and my burning from the collision of the seatbelt chafing against my chest. I'm panting, my breathing ragged and labored, as Harlow grips onto the seatbelt and his eyes stares back at me.

"Dahlia, you could've fucking killed us!" He scorns, his first breath of air was vicious. "How could you—what the fuck—what the hell were you thinking? You were swerving into the opposite lane! Not only could you have killed us, it was our fault to begin with! Where the fuck was your head?"

He screams, and screams, and my chest tightens. I don't say anything, taking in his rant, but my breathing fell more ragged and suddenly, the sensation that I was going to die became more apparent. My heart is collapsing against my ribcage, my organs are shutting down their operation, and my lungs restricting oxygen intakes—it feels hard to breathe. I wanted to cry, scream, and drop to my knees.

But I couldn't do that.

I almost got us killed.

The space inside the car was growing smaller and smaller, like someone was sucking the oxygen and matter out, and my head was spinning like a globe. I was dying. Despite the fact that we're out of harm's way, despite the fact that the roads are clear and we're in the confines of the grass—I was dying.

I unbuckle my seatbelt and rip open the door, running out. I'm breathing heavily against the fresh air, and I'm choking on the wind as my heart thumps in my ear. Thump, thump, thump.

It feels like it was going to burst, and I'm drained of energy to say or do anything. My skin rips at me, feeling like I'm in someone else's body and it burns at every sensation. I want to cry. I want to cry. I need to cry.

Tears are streaming down my cheeks as my feet skim the grass, the bristles of blades brushing against my ankles as I'm dragging my steps. I'm choking on my tears, and it's burning me and I'm crying and I don't know what the hell is going on.

I messed up, I messed up, I messed up.

I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't.

The world is bridging down on me, and I feel like collapsing against the gravel of the street. My strides were slow, but I'm walking, and I'm running, and I'm leaving off into the oblivion with no sense of direction on where the hell am I. I'm crying, my heart aches, my lungs are clouded and I feel like I'm going to die. I'm going to die young, and I'm going to die right now.

Am I dying? Is this death? Why...why...why...

"DAHLIA!" Harlow calls from behind me, and I could hear his footsteps treading the floor, running towards me. He comes closer and as fast as I'm carrying myself in hopes of disappearing into the wilderness, Harlow catches my wrist.

"Don't touch me!" I scream, ripping my hand away from his touch. I'm bawling, and I could barely make out his face in the blur of my tears. It burns me as it streams down my face, and I feel like nothing is going to help me. I was going to die. I want to leave. I just need to go.

I almost fucking killed us.

"Dahlia..." Harlow begins softly, trying to compose my unhinged state. He holds up both his hands, in solitude or surrender, I don't know which. It doesn't help.

"I can't do this anymore!" I cry, dropping myself against the concrete and scraping my knees against the gravel. I shake my head frantically, "I'm dying. I'm dying, Harlow. Can someone put me out of my misery?!"

I sink deeper and deeper into the ground, hoping to melt against the burning sidewalk and fade into the unbearable pain tightening against my core. My hands balling into fists, my nails digging into my palms, "just please...please stop yelling at me, please stop yelling at me."

I'm sorry for being suck a fuck-up. I'm sorry I can't do it, I'm sorry for anything.

"Dahlia..." Harlow falls into the space beside me, keeping a healthy distance between us. "I'm not yelling at you."

I pull away immediately, his touch overriding my senses. "I can't do anything!" I scream, my words clasp my throat in restriction. "I feel like I'm going to die and my chest is going to kill me. I'm going to lose oxygen and no one will care and notice and I don't have anyone—"

"Dahlia," Harlow commands firmly, causing me to cut off with a whimper. "That's not going to happen."

"It's already happening!" I sob, "I'm already living my nightmare, and I just want to make it stop—please make it stop!" I choke on my breaths, sucking in lost oxygen as I'm mumbling indistinguishable. I think I'm speaking in Spanish, asking for my mother, or asking for a way to end this pain—anything.

Harlow comes closer and pulls me into his arms, and this time, I don't have the energy to protest. I release cries into his hoodie, staining the sleeves with hot tears and snots. My lungs rasping for air, my bones grinding against each other, my words slobbering into sobs. It's so painful, despite Harlow's comfort—and even in his arms—I'm screaming, begging, and crying to release the tension in my chest and the pain withering in my system.

I just want to end it all.

Harlow says nothing during the entire process, not criticizing me or telling me to get up. The car fades in the back, the headlights off which indicates that he pulled out the keys, and treaded off on the side of the road. He doesn't try to pull me back into the side, and instead, calms me in his arms, trading comfort instead of words and allowing me to release all my pent-up anguish against the fabric of his hoodie.

An hour or a couple of minutes passed, I couldn't tell. The residue of my headache burns away, and slowly minimizes into an uncomfortable feeling pooled in my stomach. It wasn't enough to leave, but enough to reclaim a sense of rationality against everything. To remember I'm not going to die.

Hiccups burns my vocal cords, collapsing my intention of explaining myself. I wanted to speak, but instead every time I open my mouth, a little pop exits. But, Harlow doesn't pressure me.

He wraps his arms around my fragile body, keeping me safe. I don't remember how long I've been crying until I stop, and I don't remember how long my anxiety attack went on.

The sky trickles into nightfall and the world begins to pull dark. I was finally coherent enough to ask for us to head back to the car, and Harlow pulls out and pulls me up to my feet, holding me by his side as he takes me to the passenger side. He closes the door behind me, and heads to the driver seat.

We said nothing.

We didn't move either.

Harlow doesn't try to initiate a conversation and neither do I, as I'm stabilizing my breathing. I stare at the dashboard, pretending to draw constellations against the specs of dust and dirt, and trying to perform coherent speech in my head before the words reign fluent in English.

"My—" I choke, tearing up. "My dad taught me how to drive when I was fifteen."

I told, as Harlow watches. My fingers grip around the belt of my seatbelt, curtsy to Harlow strapping me in. "I just took my permit test, and my dad is a really good driver. I asked for his help, and like, I thought he would help me."

"He would teach me, and it was okay. But then...every little thing, I was criticized on. How I drove, how I held the wheel, how I made my stops, and my turns," I stop, collecting my thoughts, and choking. "And...he would always scream."

I swallow a breath, planting a hand on my heart, trying to collect my heartbeats in an attempt to rationalize everything. How I'm living, and how after everything, I'm still alive.

One, two, three.

"It wasn't constructive. I wasn't perfect at driving and I made a lot of mistakes, but he would scream at me and swear, and it would so loud, and I was always so scared and just the thought of getting into the car with him would terrify me that I just—" I choke, stopping short from bridging on another panic attack. "I...stopped driving."

I don't know why I'm telling him all this.

I think, combined with the events that happened yesterday, I'm still sensitive. I thought I could handle it—I did—but I couldn't. One dictation louder than a normal octave sends me into a full panic mode, and I can't handle that again.

Harlow doesn't say anything when I finish, and I look down on my hands, noticing the half-crescent nail imprints stamped in my palms. I suck in a breath, trying to calm down and keep my composure as I make my next decision.

"I don't want to drive anymore."

I don't look up to meet his gaze because I don't want to see the disappointment in his eyes, the hurt and the defeat despite all of his efforts. I know this is a crucial step in order for me to get away from my father, but I'll find another way. I have to.

I can't do